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(g C^vifftmae Cpitne 



'And all the bells on earth shall ring \»-vj/ ^^>>^ ^'Njx 
On Christmas day in the morning." ,, — r Y 



NEW YORK 

Anson D. F. Randolph & Company 

38 West Twenty-third Street 



COPYRIGHT, 1886, BY ANSON 0. F. RANDOLPH 4 COMPANY 







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3T came upon the midnight clear, 
That glorious song of old, 
From Angels bending near the earth 
To touch their harps of gold : 

Peace on the earth ; good-will to men, 
From heaven's all-gracious King." 

The world in solemn stillness lay 
To hear the Angels sing. 



yj^LORY to God ! the lofty strains 

The realm of ether fills; 
How sweeps the song of solemn joy 
O'er Judah's sacred hills! 

" Glory to God ! " the sounding skies 
Loud with their Anthems ring: 

" Peace on the earth ; good -will to men, 
From heaven's Eternal King." 
3 



^HOSE voices from on high are mute; 
The star the wise men saw is dim ; 
But hope still guides the wanderer's foot, 
And Faith renews the Angel-hymn : 



Glory to God in loftiest heaven, — 

Touch with glad hand the ancient chord- 
Good tidings unto man forgiven ; 

Peace from the presence of the Lord. 
4 



A"NIJT in the midnight's white and starry splendor 

Once more the glad bells ring; 
While softer human voices, sweet and tender, 
With songs of Christmas sing. 

The whole clear night seems bending low to listen, 

The Church lifts up its cross ; 
And solitary, snow-capped mountains glisten, 

And blue seas flash and toss. 

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Pj^ND clear to-day, as long ago, 
^ The Angel-chorus echoes still 
Above the clamor and the throe 
Of human passion, human woe — 

Good-will and peace. Peace and good-will. 

Through eighteen hundred stormy years 

The dear notes ring and will not cease ; 
And past all mists of mortal tears 
The guiding star rebukes our fears — 

Peace and good-will. Good-will and peace. 
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na HYMN of Hope to the Ages, 
^ The music of deathless Trust, 
No frenzy of mortal rages 

Can darken with doubt or dust — 

A rapture of high evangels, 
But centered in sacred calms ! 

Ah ! still the chorus of Angels 
Thrills over the Bethlehem Palms. 
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ATILL heralds the day-spring tender, 
^ That never can melt or close, 
Till the noon of its deepening splendor 
Out-blooms like a mystic rose, 

Whose petals are rays supernal 
Of Love that has all sufficed — 

And whose heart is the grace eternal 
Of the fathomless peace of Christ. 

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